You would think that one way to learn about the technical aspects of language is to read masterful writers, especially contemporary authors whose work is honored by critics and prize juries. So you should head for the archives of the Pulitzer Prizes or the National Book Awards, right? Not so fast.
What you will find, more often than not, are privileged authors whose status has given them a license to break the rules.
Let’s begin with two of the most common mistakes of sentence construction: the run-on sentence and the comma splice. Think of them as two sides of the same koine (very sophisticated play on words –- look it up). Some writers will construct sentences with multiple independent clauses, one clause running onto another without benefit of punctuation.
For example:
Most books on grammar, syntax, usage, and punctuation will tell you that the two main clauses in each of the above sentences need something stronger than the conjunction “but.” The writer has at least three ways to correct this error:
- Place a comma before the conjunction.
- Divide the clauses with a semicolon.
- Divide each sentence into two.
Now I’ve read a lot of student stories with sentences that looked like this: “I played the keyboard in dozens of rock bands, they wouldn’t let me sing until I agreed to purchase the new sound system.” My mistake here is that I spliced together two independent clauses with that wispy comma, not strong enough to hold them together.
So two classic mistakes: the run-on sentence and the comma splice.
What, then, am I to make of this passage, describing a young man trying to escape a stalker outside a crowded baseball stadium?:
Or this one about the celebration inside the ballpark:
These two passages come from the novel “Underworld,” by one of America’s most celebrated fiction writers, Don DeLillo. I say “celebrated,” even though that first passage contains three clauses that run on; even though the second passage contains five independent sentences spliced together by commas.
So who gets to break the rules? Clearly, one answer is Don DeLillo.
And what are we to make of this paragraph from “The Road,” the apocalyptic novel by Cormac McCarthy?:
McCarthy is capable of writing conventional prose as he demonstrates in that first sentence. But he sings his way out of his chains, to paraphrase Dylan Thomas, with a sentence that contains three run-on clauses, and then takes it to a higher level of rebellion with an intentional fragment that also manages to run on and on.
Study McCarthy’s work and you’ll get the feeling that he thinks marks of punctuation are like bed bugs: irritating, unsightly, worthy only of extermination. Even extended dialogue lacks quotations marks. And he won’t even give words like “won’t” their earned apostrophe.
And what does he get from all of these violations: a Pulitzer Prize for fiction, of course.
In spite of my admiration for both authors, DeLillo and McCarthy, I must confess to a feeling that their intentional violation of traditional standards can feel a bit precious at times. By “precious” I mean not “valuable” but “over-refined,” a style that focuses too heavily on the lyrical gifts of the author rather than the subject of the story.
A much harsher analysis comes from critic B.R. Myers in what he describes as “an attack on the growing pretentiousness in American literary prose.” As a prime example, he cites this passage from McCarthy’s novel “Cities of the Plain”:
This passage does have the feeling of self-parody about it, staggering from an author who is word-drunk and full of himself. “Try reading that passage out loud, and you’ll realize why McCarthy is so averse to giving public readings,” writes Myers. “His prose is unspeakable in every sense of the word.”
That is too harsh. But there is a way to make the paragraph more speakable, so to speak: Please, Cormac, add some freaking punctuation!
